


Names of Heat and Names of Light

by Grond



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Celebrimbor's Life is a Tragedy, Character Death, Crafts, Emotional Manipulation, Eregion, First Meetings, Implied/Referenced Torture, Lies, M/M, Manipulation, Manipulative Relationship, Marriage, Mind Manipulation, Pre-Lord of The Rings, Rings, Rings of Power, Sauron Being an Asshole, Second Age, Smithing, The Noldor, Unhappy Ending, silvergifting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:40:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 14,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28303200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grond/pseuds/Grond
Summary: When Annatar is summarily dismissed by the Elves of Lindon, he is unsure of the welcome he will receive in Eregion. What he discovers there achieves the rare feat of surprising him—and will be of great use to him, if he is cunning and careful.When Annatar arrives at the gates of Celebrimbor's city, Celebrimbor allows him in. Elves know to be wary of strangers bearing gifts, but this newcomer brings far more than that—and the Lord of Eregion will be forever altered, unless fate can be kind. For Annatar is not the stranger's true name.
Relationships: Annatar/Celebrimbor | Telperinquar, Celebrimbor | Telperinquar/Sauron | Mairon
Comments: 24
Kudos: 22
Collections: Tolkien Secret Santa 2020





	1. Secret and Unrepeatable (Mairon)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Barefoot_Dancer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Barefoot_Dancer/gifts).



> **"Names like pain cries, names like tombstones, names forgotten and reinvented, names forbidden or overused."**
> 
> — Richard Siken, "Saying Your Names" (the title and chapter titles are all taken from this poem).
> 
> The tumblr post with ink illustrations [can be found here](https://foxleycrow.tumblr.com/post/638441543881080832/fic-names-of-heat-and-names-of-light-word).

I have been alone for so long. 

I have returned from the East, after many years. I have seen such sights there: ice fields, scarlet meadows, violet cliffs, lakes of fire. Towers of stone crowned with temples, crumbling cities with black roads. A lake that forms a perfect circle. A bent spire of unnamed metal. I have seen where the land ends and the eastern sea begins: dark and cold and answerable to none. I cannot love the sea, but I admire its vastness. The power and majesty of it cannot be denied. Men live on its rough shores. There are few places Men do not live. They breed so quickly, and they have spread across the land. Their minds are open, malleable. They interest me, but only so much. Like the sea, I can understand their power and potential. Like the sea, I hold no love for them.

I do not need more Men. I have enough, and it would be effortless to obtain more. I have returned to the West, because I seek the Elves. Elves are like swords, in that they are edged. A fine point. More dangerous, but more useful, than an unworked piece of metal. More desirable. The Elves' talents are so great that some few have managed to impress me. Fewer still have achieved feats that have defied my own abilities. 

Their very strength is an obstacle. The Elves I have encountered thus far have not been so malleable as I would like; they held a dim view of our collaboration. The Lady of the Noldor met with me willingly, but her conversation frosted over while we spoke. She is proud and would not accept my gifts. A disappointment, as more than any other, I sought her favor, one of the greatest Noldor yet living in Middle-earth. Her alliance could have been good fortune or a grave error, for her eyes see too far, and she has known too much sorrow. 

The people of Lindon were wary when I came. The guards at their gates carried spears, and their walls were fortified and spined. Their bright eyes were cold, and their words to me as guarded as their hearts. They asked questions as sharp as their spears. My calm answers gave no cause for doubt, yet they doubted. Gil-galad would not grant me an audience, in spite of the offers I made. These Elves have been much pressed and harried, so unlike the Elves of the first days. Suspicion has grown great in their hearts, and they even distrust each other. That is not displeasing to me, but it does not serve me in this instance.

I do not expect all Elves to trust me, yet I remain certain some will take the risk. There are always those curious enough, daring enough, or naive enough. My own master worked with the Elves and won their confidence in Valinor. He taught them many things, deceit and anger not the least of them. Elves are curious and eager to learn. Most hide their weaknesses within their desires. To obtain what you want, first offer them what they want.

Ost-in-Edhil is a world apart from Lindon. I have never seen an Elven city like it. Men and Dwarves walk here freely, among the Elder Children. The outer walls are built for elegance rather than defense. I admire the fine curve and sweep of them, and I imagine how my armies would cut through and demolish them.

I am greeted here with smiles rather than weapons. The gate attendants are dark, like most Noldor. They share glances at my appearance. They want to discuss me, to ask each other what the meaning for my presence could be, but they will not be less than collected in my presence. "What is your name?" is their first question. 

"I am Annatar, called Aulendil, also known as Artano." These are names I might have held under my other master, the first I served. Generous, creative names. Why should I not pretend to be who I could have been? Lies that rest closer to the truth are less easily perceived as untruths. The Elves have already given me many names, but I cannot reveal any of those today. Those names would close this city to me, no matter how open it is. My real name is a secret, and I will keep it close, as it burns within me. I have not spoken that name since the war ended and took my master with it. Maybe I will speak it again in the days to come, but not yet—least of all to these Elves who may have founded an open city, yet have not completely dropped their guard.

"Where have you come from, Annatar? Of what people are you?"

"I fought with the host of Valinor in the Great War, and I remained here as an Emissary of the Valar. The will of my masters first sent me east, but I have returned to rejoin the Elves. And that, too, is the will of the Valar." The words are not entirely lies, but with omissions and careful phrasing, they mislead. 

"Annatar Aulendil," they say instead, "you are welcome here."

When I ask for an audience with their lord, they grant it. It seems so easy, but I am the wary one as I wait in his hall. I am alone here, without allies, with a certain vulnerability. The master of this house is a Fëanorian, and I know that family and their sharpness. Surely, he is the one most likely to see through my deceptions. Though his guards were less guarded. Though his city's walls are graceful. Though I stand here in his hall, having offered them nothing but a name.

When the lord of the city appears, I experience a feeling I have not known since the end of the Great War. Amazement cuts through me. I am so rarely startled, that the very existence of my own surprise shocks me further. Expecting to find the Elf guarded, I drop my own guard. He must see it in my eyes. I feel them widen, but not in time to control them. My lips part, and I am present like an actual creature of flesh, ruled for a moment by breath and heartbeat.

The cold silver of his diadem and earrings is all the brighter next to his warm skin. Brighter still are his cool, gray eyes. So like Fëanor in his features. So like his father Curufinwë. Though when he smiles, his face transforms, and his strong resemblance to his forebears is diluted by gentleness. 

It is not his resemblance to the Elves who lived before him that startles me. It is not the soft way he smiles. It is not the fact that one of his standing was so willing to meet and welcome me so openly, when the Lady Galadriel and the Elves of Lindon were so resistant to my overtures. It is the burst of heat that suddenly expands within me when I look upon those Elven features that are both very familiar and very not.

I have knowledge of all the Elves my Lord knew when he was honored in Valinor. He did not pay any great attention to this Elf, far more taken by the Grandfather. My Lord, looking upon this one, would not have seen him as I see him now: the radiance flowing from the Elf's face, his expanding soul as silver as the jewelry he wears. 

His _fëa_ rises from his _hröa_. My spirit, brighter and hotter, rises in concert. The Elf does not perceive what I see, with the sight of an Ainu. No one in this city could witness it, save myself—the silver and the gold of us reaching out to each other. Against my will—I do not know his will, but it is against mine. One light fierce and searing, the other cool and glittering, they strike each other and merge, drawn with an inevitability as certain that of as a stone falling from a height toward the earth, or a wave curving toward the shore. Our collision. This cannot be. Yet it becomes truth. I do not want it, but it is not a matter of my desire.

Is it fate? Do I believe in fate? No—I am against it, the anti-fate. I stand in opposition to what was decreed. Despite this, I cannot deny or prevent the way our souls merge together, shaping themselves around each other. For an instant, I see once again the sweet green-gold fields of Almaren, the first trees spangled with singing stars...

Celebrimbor's reaction is immediate. His expression falters, then his stance. He almost loses his footing. We stand in silence, both on the verge of admitting what we both know, yet holding back. I am aware of what has happened, yet I do not know _how_ it could be so. I have grown so far above such base trivialities. I am too altered; too much of my Lord entered and remains within me. 

"Annatar Aulendil, we are honored by your presence,"says Celebrimbor at last, slowly. The first thing he says to me is my name, false though it is. "I am Celebrimbor, son of Curufinwë."

I must take care of my features. I have made this mask, and I must maintain it. I must say the necessary words. Ceremony will guide me, if nothing else can. "The honor is mine. I thank you for your hospitality."

"Our hospitality is for all. But you are most welcome."

I have an advantage now, but a tenuous one, and double-edged, like all dealings with Elves. I will not press this advantage yet. I must not press it. To press it will be to endanger it, and that I will not do. Our souls collided, mine and Celebrimbor's, and then receded, but where they met there remains a golden line, a chain of linked rings, binding his being to mine. I wrap my hand, the hand of my spirit, around it. No Elf can see this. Another Maia or a Vala could, but they are not here. Only I am. I, alone.

I realize, belatedly, that an hour or more has passed as we have stood here staring at each other. Our unspoken union has twisted time. If one of Celebrimbor's household sought to interrupt us at any point, I did not notice. Unthinkable, that I should fail to be aware of everything around me at all times. I heard of such an inconvenience occurring once before, to another Maia, but she was most unlike me. I must regain control. I cannot stand staring at this Elven lord for centuries in his hall. 

"Celebrimbor," I say. It is the one thing I say then, for a long time. In spite of my struggles and my will, time escapes us again. 

I have been alone for so long, but I am so no longer. This was not my plan, but it must be my plan now. To be worthy, to be successful, a plan must be dynamic. It must account for the unaccountable. I know this, because I am the unaccountable. I am the unlooked for element that ruins the plans of others. Now I stand in Eregion, with my first foothold, and I am committed to its ruination.


	2. Flowers That Open Only Once (Celebrimbor)

When the stranger asks to see me, I say yes.

In our city, we welcome strangers, unless we have a clear reason not to. I chose to found this city on the idea that most people are good. I want to believe that, given the opportunity, the majority will prove themselves worthy of trust. Not all, no, but we must move beyond our old prejudices. The peoples of Arda are meant to live together. We are meant to share with each other, not to keep ourselves apart. We have been much wounded and betrayed, and we are on our guard, but there is hope for us and for our union.

I received Gil-galad's warning. His messengers are swift and true, and they arrived at our city before the stranger did. I listened with care to the words of my kinsman's heralds. I did not discount his council. I do not lightly dismiss the concerns of my fellow Elves. I do heed them, though not blindly. I understand why he would send such a message. As much as I am willing to risk trust, I have also known the bitter taste of treachery and cruelty. I would not offer my faith easily or quickly.

I would give Gil-galad's words more weight if he had some measure of proof, anything more solid than suspicions, however strong. I know what it is to be suspect, to be distrusted by my own people. My family earned hatred and fear along with admiration. I stand in the shadow of my father and my grandfather. I love them dearly, but I cannot love their actions. I was harmed by them, and so many others lost their lives. It would be natural for any Elf to be cautious in the company of one of my line, yet when I parted ways with my father, I was welcomed by my fellow Elves. I was embraced by kin and stranger alike, taken in and honored, and helped through so many hurts. Now the Elves have placed this land within my care.

It is curious, the appearance of an ambassador from the Valar, at a time when there is such grim rumor of a darkness and unknown forces rising in the East. Yet I was asked for an audience by this diplomat of the Valar, and I say yes. I am willing to hear him speak, at least.

_Annatar._

He has taken on an Elven form, crowned with light. His eyes are the color of amber, and his hair is the color of the palest heart of the flame. His skin is golden. The jewelry he wears is gold and exquisitely crafted, gleaming about his hair and ears and on his arms and fingers. He looks as if he were forged rather than born, shaped by a master craftsman. There is such a brilliance to him.

Yes, Gil-galad would be wary of this stranger. Not because of any definite wrongness in him, a fault one could perceive. He is so polished. So fair, and in his manner so genuine, although he has not yet said a word. Is it wrong to mistrust someone on the basis of seeming too trustworthy, too splendid? It may be, but we Eldar knew another fair face that proved foul. It is not the presence of anything in particular that marks Annatar, but an absence. The absence of what? That I cannot say. I do not have time to think.

It strikes me within the first moments of our meeting—like a flood washing through the audience chamber to wash us both away. I have the sense of great motion and noise, though the room around us remains absolutely still, and—except for the few words we utter—absolutely silent. The flood is all emotion, overpowering, and I am almost washed away by it.

I have heard of this befalling other Elves, but I never believed it would happen to me: the surge of feeling, the rushing union of souls. The binding that can happen once, and never again. I live under two ruinous fates: that of my clan, and that of my family. I have long considered my work and my fellow smiths to be my true partners, my commitments to them my greatest bonds. Constant and kind, fulfilling and known. This stranger is strange in more ways than one. I know nothing more than that he is called Annatar Aulendil, known as Artano, and that he comes to us from the Valar. That is what he told us. All I know is what he told us, and I should be alarmed by that, but in this moment, I feel a rejoicing such as I have never felt before. I unfold. My soul expands.

He says my name. 

I lose the ability to sense that time has passed, but in my joy, I remember the need for caution. My city is founded on trust, but I myself cannot afford to always trust. I must take care, because of my lineage and my position here. My people need me. They rely upon my strength and guidance. Can I afford to be distracted in this way?

I am cautious, but in all the centuries of the Great Enemy's works, I never heard that he succeeded in creating or emulating this—this bond that arises between Elves, that was given to us by our creator. A gift. It must be a gift. I long to speak of it to him, and yet I do not. When I am able to speak again, I keep my voice calm. "You have said the Valar sent you to join us."

His own voice is equally calm, but if I were to suspect him for that, I would have to suspect myself as well. He must also know what has happened to us, but he is likely thinking of his duties and his masters first. "So they did," he says, "with their blessing. The war took much from us all—it is right that we should reach out to each other in aid and friendship now, to heal old hurts and help each other."

It becomes more difficult to recall Gil-galad and his warning, though his words echoing in his herald's voice drift through my mind. _I did not like the look of him_ , and, _Be sure you take great care_. 

"We appreciate the gesture and your presence." I bid my hands not to tremble. I bid my lips to smile, but not too much. "My family has, as I am sure you know, been at much odds with the Valar."

He nods. His warm eyes on me are so bright, and I sense that beneath his words, he says something else, wordlessly. Between us, I feel an unfathomable depth growing. A greatness is opening, not to separate us, but to join us. This unfolding of the soul, this outreaching of the heart—it can happen one time, in the life of any Elf, and this will be my moment. There will be no other, later. It is not what I expected, because I did not expect it would happen at all.

I have fallen silent. As I cannot guess how long this latest silence has lasted, I make myself speak again. "I would prefer to begin to bridge the gap between the Eldar and the Ainur, though we have chosen to remain here in Middle-earth." 

"My wish is the same," says Annatar. "As you may guess from my name, I spent many centuries in Aulë's forges. I learned so much from him, and there is much I wish to share with you, and with all the smiths of Ost-in-Edhil." 

One thing I have learned from my own centuries of smithing is to listen to the ringing of a hammer's strikes and to know when its strike is true. His words do have the ring of truth. He is a smith, and we have that in common. Already I am picturing him before the forge, face lit by the fires, arms directing the fall of the hammer, his golden hair tied back with a ring of gold. The warm image warms my skin, yet all the social dictates demand that as the lord of this land, I retain my formality and politeness.

Annatar does the same. "I have heard much of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain and their great skill and artistry. If you do not object, I would like to meet with them."

The words are so similar to the words that were rising to my own lips, I cannot help but answer him. "We would welcome you in our forges. We would not deny any crafter who sought us in good faith."

"You yourself are a great smith," says Annatar. Not a question. Everyone knows of my family and our arts, in Valinor no less than Middle-earth. "Yet it may be," he adds, "that there are a few things I might teach you."

We have sought to achieve much with our works here, and there are few goals that are more dear to me than the possibility of improving the lives of my people through my skill and my labors. "I am sure you could," I say. It has been long since I was in Valinor, and longer since that time before my father and grandfather began to distrust the Valar. 

The more time passes, the more I understand their choices—the reasons they were wrong, and those times that they were, in their way, right. I cannot live my life in suspicion as they did. There were many reasons Father and I parted ways, though it pained me so. What if this stranger could open another path for our people, a way back to unity and understanding? That has been my wish for many years.

Another wish, new born: that I could rest my hand upon Annatar's gilded skin and feel the warmth of it. I should not desire that, yet I do. My heart has chosen this moment to offer itself. It is not a wise moment, but love is not necessarily married to wisdom, and it cannot be undone.


	3. An Arrow to Prove a Point (Mairon)

"Lord Celebrimbor." I approach him with care, remembering to lend my steps sound and rhythm, these acts a Maia must remember to seem approachable and more familiar to the Eldar. A small matter, but important, to maintain a trustworthy air. The subtle seemings must be maintained—the thousand little things Elves do not realize they do until someone suddenly stops doing them, and _then_ they notice. More important than that is that I do not let my master's influence show in my appearance: the veins of shadow, the crackle of ice within fire. Few Maiar are as adept at altering their forms so completely as I am. Few Maiar have chosen to refine and perfect the skill. Most have no will or purpose to deceive, but even if they willed it, they have not my excellence nor my aptitude.

He turns, smiles. His dark hair is pulled tightly back and up, wrapped into a coiled braid resting on the crown of his head. A star of silver glitters there, holding the coil fast. "You do not have to call me that," he says, stepping back from the forge. 

"Call you what?" I caught his meaning, but I wait. I let him say it. Like myself, he has other names. He does not know my other names, but I know all of his.

"Lord. You called me simply Celebrimbor once before."

In the audience chamber, yes. When we met, I was thrown off my guard and did not give him a title. I duck my head as if to show respect and hide a smile. "You remember that—?"

"We need not stand on ceremony here."

"If you wish. Then should we stand on common ground instead?" Lifting my head to meet his gaze, I let the usual formality in my tone slip slightly.

"I'd like that."

Oh, his impulses are so good, and nothing pleases me more than to take a good impulse in my hands and twist, remake it into a sharp and bitter thing. I take another step toward him, but do not come too close. "Then side by side it is. It should be so in the forge, after all."

He falls silent, and I pull on the strands of his soul, so attentively, like playing an instrument. Testing this bond I understand the surface of, but not the depths. I take care to avoid alarming him, and because every time I pull at him, I feel a pull on my own spirit. It is an unfamiliar shift that I do not always enjoy—although I can ignore it. I am circumspect, but I want to know how I can use this. I would far prefer it if the chain were not connected to both of us equally. That makes it a danger, another danger, among these Elves who may cause harm or be of use. The Lady and the Elves of Lindon turned me away, and they must be aware that I am here. I depend on this Elf for my foothold, and I cannot jeopardize that.

"It makes the workshop a brighter place," he agrees eventually, when the moment passes and I cease pulling at him. "I do not think of myself as lord within these walls, but as one smith among many."

"I feel the same. What does it serve us as artists to put one above another?"

His expression is candid, and my words have pleased him, so he enthuses, "You have such great talent, Annatar. What you've taught us already is—"

"Oh, no. I give full credit to my master. He taught me so much." Which master? I have had two. Both taught me much, but they were different lessons. I am the sum of both of them, but more indebted to one than the other. I serve no master now. Isn't that a strange thing? In the distance, in the background of all events, I feel and hear a constant low humming, an expectancy. It is like the pause before a thunderclap, or before a strike of lightning—yet the thunder and lightning never come. That must be my connection to my master, cut off from me by the Door of Night. Existing, but not for me, not with me. I no longer follow his orders, for none arrive. I have become a strange, in-between entity, in his absence. I am not a Vala, but I have become more than a Maia, apart from any other of my kind. My will is mine. Yet my master's being lingers in me. 

I do not want what he wanted, to plunge the world into chaos and darkness. No, what I want is what I have always wanted: to bring order to this world. To light it with my fire. For me to accomplish this, some must first burn. This city and these Elves must burn, but before that, I have a use for them.

Celebrimbor stands crowned with the fire of forge behind him. It lights his hair and shoulders. There is such a light about Elves, no matter if they stand near the fire or far from it. They make their own light, though some are brighter than others. They are kin to stars. In Angband, we blotted out the stars.

"You're working tirelessly today. What have you been so busy making?" I ask, to change the course of the conversation and my thoughts. 

"Something for the hunters—a new kind of arrowhead."

I had seen them, small and sharp, but I had not understood why he labored at them with such intensity and dissatisfaction. 

"We need the hunt," he explains, "and many find joy in it, but I was seeking a way to make our arrows more humane," he explains. "If they could be more accurate and quicker to kill—"

"Oh, I understand. A worthy aim. We hunt because we must, but there's no reason to be cruel in doing so." Although there is, of course there is. There is every reason, but I look down at his creations with the thoughtfulness of one who shares his goals. "Our prey deserves our respect."

I realize as I say it—that I do respect him, this smith and his talents. How unlike me to do so. There is so much I know that he does not, but there is in him an ability I cannot fully comprehend. I begin to suspect that, like his grandfather, he has the potential to make something I yet cannot.

That is why I am here. To teach these Elves, yes, but also to learn from them about those works that eluded me. The Fëanorian Lamps, the Palantíri, the Jewels—I am now standing as close to their maker as I can come in this age. His blood runs through this Elf, and his powerful talent lives on within this vulnerable body before me.

"What are you thinking, Annatar?"

I must have appeared too deep in thought, and allowed it to show. I blink as if lost in a moment's creative contemplation. "I was thinking, I could imbue them with a charm."

"A charm?"

"To ease the pain. An object like this, small as it is, can take on a simple charm." I have been living in the city for several months, but I have been letting my residence gradually unfold. I have begun work among the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, but I am not truly one of them. I sense their lingering wariness, along with that of their lord, but as keenly, I feel their eagerness. They want so much to learn what I can teach, and in all this time, I have done nothing to raise their suspicions. I have not pushed. I have not grasped. I have lived simply. In spite of the greatness I have known, I have lived with extreme sparsity for a long time now. I have learned to do without. 

"And some modifications to the shape might be made, to help the animal die more quickly." I reach down to pick up one of the arrows Celebrimbor discarded, and I see that he has been experimenting with exactly that. I turn the metal in my hands, aware of how closely he is watching my fingers, mesmerized by their movements. I sense the hunger in him. To learn, to grow. He wants more. "You've made progress here," I encourage him. "If we make the head hollow, the animal will bleed out all the faster." 

"Yes, our archers' shots are true, but there are many things that can go wrong for the quarry."

"I know it well. Let me tell you what we've done in Valinor." I have much to tell, if not of Valinor, for in Angband, we concerned ourselves—not with sparing others pain—but with what would cause death, and more death. I talk of grooves and hollow spaces, and he lights up, unaware that when I talk of death, that I have caused so much of it. He is excited to converse with me on technical matters, and then to work with me, and this becomes the first project we have collaborated on together. 

When we have our prototypes, we go hunting. Not alone—others of the Mírdain go with us, all eager to test our new arrows. Their presence does not present me with any obstacle. In the wilderness, among the trees, it is easy to lead Elves and scatter them, to direct their paths by a hundred tiny feints and deceptions, tricks of illusion and manipulation. It is not difficult to ensure that Celebrimbor and I are cut off from the rest. By a small distance. Not enough for him to think much of it, though I am sure to share a glance with him and smile.

When the moment is perfect and we are alone, I take a step closer to him. Then, I summon my servant from the wood. My creatures, so obedient, come when they are called, and this one is no different. Great and dark, bristling with shadow, and snarling with malice rather than hunger. Its eyes gleam with my will. Little effort is required on my part, as its mind is mine. I have planned this.

The beast attacks me first, claws raking my arm. Teeth that snap barely miss me as I pull back. My shoulder is hot from the blood running down my arm. When I gain distance from it, the beast turns to Celebrimbor. " _Run_ ," I cry out.

The Elf has not fled. He sees my hurt, and he cares for me. He will not leave me, though he knows I am stronger than he, and in less danger. "Annatar—!" His bow is in his hand, but the creature is so fast.

The beast lunges for him. Claws strike at him. There is no one else close enough to help. There is no time. I could let it happen. I could let its jaws close on him and watch with delight as the blood fountains from another Elf's throat. Instead, I raise my bow. I let the arrow fly. Its flight is true. It sinks in deep. It is the arrow we designed, after all. The great body of the beast seizes up. It shudders and falls. 

Yes, I have killed my own servant, but one cannot say I am a poor master to my creatures. The hollow arrow lets the blood flow out so swiftly, and the charm eases the pain. Few have received such a kind death from me, and few will in the future. It is a gift. As its life runs out of its body, I run to Celebrimbor's side. I take him in my arms. "Are you hurt?"

"No, I—No, I was not."

The other Elves appear in moments, quick and bright through the trees. They gather around us. Celebrimbor leans against me, and I am his protector. I pass my hand over his dark hair. This is when they all see and exclaim at the blood that soaks my arm. They realize I am hurt, and that I risked myself protecting their beloved lord. It is common knowledge that a normal wound would not trouble one such as myself ordinarily, but they can see the beast was not an ordinary one. The war taught them that there are creatures that can harm an Ainu.

The Elves say my name again and again and will not rest until I am bandaged.

"It does not matter," I say. Another truth, for I could heal the wound with a thought. They insist, and I let them do as I will, but they have seen my concern for their lord and how I forget myself in it. They will remember that.

Later, they examine the beast, marveling at how true my arrow was, to kill without the aid of any of its fellows. Wondering at how such a foul creation drew so near their realm. "Morgoth's creatures," they say, "are with us still."

They are right, of course. They are.


	4. A Flash in the Sky (Celebrimbor)

I have taken to walking with Annatar. We work throughout the day, but after the evening meal, we wander among the forests and the hills, as Arien departs and the stars appear. The twilight softens and shadows our walks, and Annatar's gold stands out against the violet sky. 

Annatar is not what I would call talkative, but when he does speak, his words have merit. We converse on our walks, but the majority of our time is spent in a companionable silence that can say as much as words do. Over the years, I have become accustomed to his presence. I have come to enjoy it. As I enjoy his clever observations, his suggestions in the forge, his reflections on our plans and concepts. He never insists upon his own ideas, but he states them in a way that makes us listen.

Our walks are usually silent and uneventful, which is what one hopes for from such an excursion. It is a time for contemplation rather than action, yet this night has a surprise for us. As we rise to the crest of a hill, I look up to see the sky suddenly filled with streaks of light, as stars seem to race across the night: quick, silver, and shining. The timing is so perfect, I half-suspect that Annatar has planned it, but when I glance at him, he looks as surprised as I am.

We fall still, and we watch. There are so many lights, bright against the darkening sky. In one moment, their rush dwindles to one or two bright lines, but in the next, there is a wild flurry of them. It is like watching jewels perform a dance. All their trajectories are similar, but their movements are unfamiliar and unpredictable. The overall effect is so fleeting and enchanting, it as if this is a performance orchestrated by the skies for our delight. I do delight in it. How could I fail to? Joy honors the performers, no matter their nature.

I am the first to break the silence. "It is so beautiful, to call it beautiful does not seem enough. I've seen this before, but once in a great while, and rarely did it last so long. What causes it, Annatar, do you know?" I am used to appealing to his knowledge.

"Lady Varda is calling her stars home to her."

"Calling— What do you mean? The lights are like stars, but the stars we know are constant in the sky."

"They are Maiar, so they can leave a part of themselves behind, to shine on. Think of that part as being like the gleaming thrones they usually rest upon. But sometimes they gather for a council or a celebration, and they depart. Their thrones can shine on without them for a time."

"Are they usually up there all alone?"

"No not quite alone. Stars sing to each other through the sky. They can always hear each other, no matter how far apart they are. You might say their existence is a conversation."

"They're singing? Even now?"

"Oh, yes. You cannot hear them down here, with Elven ears, but their songs are beautiful and can cross the entire sky." 

"I have never spoken so much or so closely with one of the Ainur before." As he appears in an Elven form and does not often speak of his own nature, I seldom bring it up. I do not wish to be discourteous. As he is a smith, I want him to feel that he is one of us, rather than one apart.

"And I spent so much time laboring with my master, I rarely spoke so to the Eldar." 

"I am glad we've had the opportunity to do so. I feel very fortunate" I glance away from the stars to see him, and I'm surprised to find that his expression does not match mine. He does not appear pleased but troubled, by nothing I can name, his head raised to the sky: eyes darkened, a line between his gold brows, and the edges of his mouth turning downward. 

"Annatar, what is it?"

He quickly smiles, shakes his head. "Oh, it does not matter."

That was what he said when he saved me from the dark beast in the wood. Emissary of the Valar he may be, but he has taken on physical form to live among us and can be hurt. His arm was ripped open, and he required the aid of our finest healers, but he said it did not matter.

"It does matter, to me." I pause, then hazard a guess. "Do you miss your home?"

That startles a laugh out of him. "You know me so well?"

"I like knowing you," I say, because he is a person it is difficult to know, and I want to know him better, to understand him more. He is brave and intelligent. He is thoughtful and attentive. The longer he stays with us, the more difficult it becomes to envision Ost-in-Edhil without him. 

"I do miss my home, yes. It was dear to me. I knew much happiness there."

"Do you plan to return someday?" A part of me fears his answer, fears that he will say he plans to leave us. Will say when. That it will be too soon.

"I don't know if I will." He pauses. He has not simply fallen silent, because I sense there is more he wants to say. He does not disappoint me. "Celebrimbor," he begins, then stops, that troubled expression surfacing again in his eyes, which dims their light.

"Call me Tylepe," I suggest, both because I have thought to tell him that for some time, and because I think it might ease or distract him.

"Tylepe," he repeats after me.

"A nickname. My family always called me so, and my friends do still, those I am closest to. By now, we know each other well enough."

I mean to ease him, to make him feel more welcome, but his expression does not show that he finds comfort in my words. "Do you ever think you might have made a great mistake?"

"There are times when I do." It is all too easy to conjure the ghosts of my mistakes. Some few rise to mind sooner than others. Leaving Valinor. Leaving my father. There are even times I fear I might have been mistaken in insisting on structuring my realm and my city as I do. It can be frightening, to be open to friendship. It leaves you open also to attack. "But those I have already made, I cannot undo. As for those I have yet to make—I can be vigilant, but I cannot live in fear of them." 

An unexpected pain distorts Annatar's features, as sudden as the rain of stars that startled me. My first impulse is to reach out to him, to steady his arm with a hand. The warmth of him seeps through my skin and spreads up my arm. "Are you unwell?"

He shakes his head again. "No, no. Think nothing of it."

I cannot heed him in this. "Annatar, please tell me what it is. You may speak freely with me. What disturbs you so?"

"I have not wanted to speak of it—but the years have passed, and it grows more difficult to be silent."

I grow silent, first to listen, but secondly because I begin to guess at what he will say.

"I wish to fulfill my duty here, to help the Elves. To help all of them. I cannot afford to falter. Yet I have become far more interested in the fate of one Elf in particular." 

"Annatar—"

"I thought it would be best to focus on my duties, on helping you, for that is important to me. I do not want to present you with any difficulties. I know you have your own bindings, your own responsibilities—"

He breaks off. I find this pause hard to bear. His words reflect my feelings so closely, they are a mirror. They are also a wound. I always thought it best to say nothing. I did not want to disturb his purpose, or my own. I put the greater good before my personal wants. 

"—yet I cannot bear it anymore," he confesses. "To be so near, and to— to love you so well, without speaking of it." His eyes are so bright now, glowing gold and focused on me. They make me forget the shower of stars above. They make me forget my misgivings. And the warnings that I must take great care.

When I move toward him, he comes to meet me, and our lips touch. Part of me continues to insist I should not, but I feel the flood of raw emotion again, and this time it does sweep me away. Like the stars sweeping through the sky, I am called, and I must answer. I must go. I lose my footing. We sink to the ground, heedless of the fact that we lie on an open hill together. The grass is tall, and it brushes lightly against my skin as I move among the night's shadows. If this was meant to be, can it be wrong? 

When at last we fall still, we rest on our backs, facing the sky. Above us, the stars still speed and shine, and I imagine their display is for us alone, a celebration. I take Annatar's hand. It is so warm in mine.


	5. If There Was One Thing I Could Save (Mairon)

I watch him work. I love to watch him work. I could stand for many hours here, with the heat of the fire on my face. His hair pulled up, the faint sheen on the back of his neck, the smooth power of his motions. He is strong. Even for an Elf, he is strong. Born in Valinor, beneath the light. His flesh and blood and bones took in the brilliance of the Trees. He does not shine with that light, radiating it into the wider world. His exterior is not golden or silver. No, that light gathered within him, and it is still there, held beneath his skin. 

I teach all the Elves thoroughly, certain not to neglect any of the Mírdain, lest one begin to resent me. They do not realize what they teach me in turn. What Fëanor did: how he wedded soul to object. It was a feat I tried to achieve so many times, but I could not. Almost I succeeded, many times. I wedded the energies of my master to so many of my works. His nature was unstable, powerful but unpredictable. My own power was more steady, but there was something missing, always. Some step, some element, I could not grasp. I begin to see what it was. 

Fëanor. He possessed something no one else did. My master sought him out, but was turned away. Was this why—because of what he had, the element we seek? That strangeness, that unknown, I feel it in this Elf, carried down through the bloodline, warm and liquid and alive. What did the creator do? What did he make and keep secret from us, here? I wonder if I am the one who discovered the secret of it, but though I have guessed at its presence, I do not truly understand it. It displeases me to find a force I cannot understand. That I should have to come to an Elf for guidance, though it be in secret.

I have realized a fact over the years: when Celebrimbor and I work together, I work better. 

It is unnerving to realize that if I could keep him with me, I would. I would like to maintain the way I feel when he is near me. It must be born of the bond between us. Such a bond is meant to augment the gifts of those bound by it. Ordinarily, that would be so, and purely so, but this bond has fallen under my master's purview. It has been twisted from its usual ends. Like myself, it has become _other_.

Celebrimbor has noticed me by now. Turned away from his work, he is already smiling, aware of my presence. "Yes, Annatar?" He reaches out and clasps my hand. 

I squeeze his hand gently in reply. "It is time for me to speak words I have been waiting to say." Years before, I said similar words about our union, though I had made my tone uncertain then, and my speech now is sure.

He listens quietly, but his expression says that he would welcome anything I have to tell him. He has heard words against me, from his fellow Elves. I have worked all this time to make sure that he will give my words more weight than theirs. With each smile. With each loving touch. With each work of my hands. There are some creations that can never be made through skill alone, no matter how great. They require a factor that cannot be imitated or overlooked: _time_. How I have given of my time.

"I know how your people fear. There are rumors from the East. That is why I traveled there, to seek out a possible danger—though I did not find it, and I do not know what it might be. I would like to teach you how to make a great work, a power that can protect you. So you can live in peace and safety. You and your people have learned so much, and so quickly. I believe that you are ready now."

"What you say lightens my heart, Annatar. I have long dreamed that I could create a work that would be of such great benefit to my people. I do not wish to see them hurt again."

I know very well that this is the dearest wish of his heart. To save his people from what I might do to them. "This is something not any Elf could do. But you are descended from Fëanor."

Such a somberness then, and he has wished this as well: to ascend to the heights his grandfather achieved with such natural ease. For he may be the greatest living Elven smith, yet Fëanor remains ever an artist apart. Why would he not seek the same height, not necessarily for himself, but for others, when so much is at stake? The Elves still fear my master and his works, and not without reason.

"So I am." He is so grave, and it must be a burden, that descent and legacy. He will do what he can to make his peace with it—another desire that I can use, that I will pull at as I pull upon the chain that binds us. "If you think we are ready, then I would make the effort. Not you and I only, but all of us together."

I have to admit that I have not yet learned Fëanor's trick for making jewels, and the Elves here also do not know it. That is not to say that I have learned nothing, for Celebrimbor was tutored at Fëanor's feet, in his youth. I have watched these Elves closely, and I have taken in their skill, along with their energies. A little power at a time, not enough to be missed, but I have taken from them even as I have given them what I wanted to have. Over the time I have spent here, I have given form to my plan. Ever it grows clearer and more complete.

"We will make rings," I tell him. "They will hold power, and they will amplify it. They will provide you with a protection that few could equal."

A ring is an ideal shape for magic. The circle amplifies. The symmetry refines. A ring is limiting, it contains, but it is also limitless. A circle, without break, represents an endless path. An unbroken cycle. Around and around—within a ring, power wedded to will, will spin. Better than a diadem or a necklace, for a ring's compactness concentrates its power.

"Annatar—you know I would be grateful for any of your knowledge, but especially if it will be of so much help to us."

"And I would never deny you any portion of my knowledge, Tyelpe. Let me show you how it may be done, for a start." These rings will not be a sham. No, they will work exactly as I say. They will be a great boon to his people, and all will bear witness to the generosity and wisdom of Annatar. Lies that lie close to the truth steal much of the truth's power.

"Shall I call the others here?"

"No. This first time, let it be you and me alone."

I make a ring in his presence, slowly and methodically. This is not one of the rings of my plan, or even one of a particularly great power. As I have said, it is a demonstration. Yet I do put power into it, as I work, so that he might see how it can be done. Into it, I pour an essence that I possess in excess, which I cannot see any use for: this emotion that binds us. This feeling that has grown between us. Though I am false, it is true. As I use it, pouring it into the bright metal, I feel it does have substance. It has _purpose_ , if not one that is useful to me.

I do not know what else to do with this unused potency, so I give this ring its power. I instruct it to assure Celebrimbor that I am true. I infuse it with the certainty that he should not doubt me. That he should love me enough to overlook any signs of betrayal—or at least, deny them, explain them away. My master could twist any decent feeling, and I will do the same. It is my ring of love, a ring of lies.

When it is finished, when it has cooled, I present it to him with a smile. It contains so much of what he finds so fair, and much else in addition—but it is the fairness that I wish him to see, and cherish, and in so doing, fail to see the rest. A shudder runs through him. He senses the object's power, if not its true intent. I gesture to him, beckoning, and he holds out his hand.

"For you," I say.

Yes, I want to keep him. I want to both have him and to consume him. I want to preserve every part of him, this Elf who makes my fire burn brighter. Who makes me feel what I should not feel. But I cannot keep him, for all that I consume will be destroyed.

I slip the ring onto his finger.


	6. Of a Simple Profound Sadness (Celebrimbor)

"Have you never found him suspicious?" Gil-galad asks me. He does not often come to visit, for his duties in Lindon are many. When he does make his way here, I treasure each moment I spend with him. We have been speaking of many things, but at last, with inevitability if not speed, the conversation has made its way to Annatar. 

I had expected his question, or one like it, but I had not prepared an answer. "I would not say that I suspect him, for he has given me no concrete reason to." I do not tell Gil-galad the things that give me pause. I do not speak of Annatar's sudden silences, or the times he leaves the city without telling me exactly where he has gone. He says he has work for the Valar which he must keep confidential, and that may be true, but it fills me with disquiet that for spans of time, weeks or more, he is gone from me—and I do not know where he went, or what he did while he was there. We have grown close, but in the centuries I have come to know my partner better, gaps in my knowledge have come to stand out, in ever starker contrast to the parts of him I know well. 

"I sense a hesitation in your words, kinsman." 

Is that what it is? Am I hesitating? Gil-galad is shadowy but starlit, like the dusk, and I feel at ease in his presence, as I do when I walk beneath the stars. "I would not call it suspicion, what I feel."

"Then what is its name?" A calm tone speaks to his desire not to distress me, but I hear through it to the severity beneath. That harshness which he reserves for Annatar, and not myself.

"There is something about him I do not know, or understand."

"An unknown which may be ill."

"It may—or it may be good. Or neither, or both. I do not suspect him, but I am watchful." If only I could drop my watchfulness. I long for it, sometimes. To be like other Elves, who can give their partners all of themselves. 

Gil-galad nods. "You must tell me, if your watchfulness grows into doubt. I understand why you do not wish to doubt him." 

I glance down at my ring, the one Annatar made for me. There were other rings that followed, more elaborate and more powerful, but this one is most dear to me. "Yet I understand why you are concerned."

"I know it. I know you well. Always thinking. Nothing unconsidered. It is something I have always admired in you, Tyelpe." His smile is the tension in his lips dissipating. Gil-galad is not satisfied, but his affection for me makes him hold back. There are moments when I almost say to him that he can be as honest as he wishes, keep nothing from me.

"I will tell you, if I find real cause to doubt him." I half-fear there are things I should have told him already. But I also fear to lose Annatar. He is a Maia. Of course his behavior and his emotions will differ from that of an Elf. There are reasons for his actions, for the fact that I do not understand all of them. There is no one else I can ask about being wed to a Maia, for the only other Elf who had this experience left for the Halls long ago.

"You will have my aid, if you need it."

"I know that I do." I pray I will not. 

When I part from Gil-galad, I go—as I so often do—to the forge. Annatar is already there, as he so often is, and I abandon all other pursuits to watch him. He labors tirelessly. He crafts endlessly, as if he were mad for it, as if he could not help himself. He makes the most beautiful things, and he gives most of them away to the people of my city, without asking for anything in return. What a generous spirit, some say—but not all say so. Others believe more as Gil-galad does, but what are their suspicions based on? Intuition? Learned wariness? Neither of those are good enough reasons, not when it comes to the person I have come to love. I need more. Yet, if I love him, should I be looking for reasons not to?

There is a certain strangeness about Annatar. One no one else has noticed. I saw it from the first, subconsciously, but it took years before I understood what I saw: the way the light plays about him, the way the fire responds to him. At first, I thought it a mark of his nature as an Ainu, his long service with Aulë, one of the many things that came to him from the Valar. Or, once I came to love him well, I wondered if my fond vision had found poetry in the flames by imagining the way they moved toward him, as my feelings did.

If it were a skill he had gleaned, he would have spoken of it. He might have taught it to us, as he taught us so many things. If it were my imagination, I would not have seen it so clearly. The fire knows him, it marks him. If it is only because he is a Maia, then why do I not remember other Maiar being marked in this way? I wonder at it, but it is not telling enough to speak of to anyone. That alone would not be enough to concern me. 

We smiths know the fire so well. In Quenya, our people have many names for fire: different flames for different purposes, and with different origins. And not merely that, but the varied and distinct kinds of light that a fire gives off, which hint at its heat and nature—these too, have their own names, though not all the Noldor know them. My grandfather invented those words, as he stared deep into the fire of the forge. More than any other Elf, with his fiery spirit, he understood light and heat. He could tell you exactly why and how each flame was different from the next.

I remember Grandfather well. He had his moments of towering rage, but he could be so gentle and warm. In this, he was like his element. Rarely did I see him go cold, but nothing chilled him more than the mention of the Enemy, when he walked among us in Valinor. Whenever he was asked why he did not visit Melkor's halls like other crafters, the ice in Fëanáro's voice would crackle. "I like not the look of a flame in his presence."

It was the kind of thing he would say, a cryptic comment that would take its meaning from the tone in his voice and the expression on his face. I never went to Melkor's halls. Grandfather and Father did not permit it, and I am glad of it. 

Once Father asked Grandfather what he meant about Melkor and the look of a flame, and he said, "In his presence, the fire takes on colors and shapes I have never seen in it before." He had never gone to Melkor's halls himself, but he had seen him in the presence of torches and candles and other lights—as Melkor insisted upon himself and was often present at gatherings and festivities in those days. Fëanáro had seen, not what Melkor had intended him to see, but something that he did without realizing it, an aspect of his nature that he had not thought to hide, unaware of how preternaturally my grandfather understood the language of flames.

It is by ourselves that we give ourselves away. 

When Gil-galad asks me if I never found him suspicious, I think of the flames. They move around him in a way I have never seen them move before. It is a very small thing. Most people, most smiths, would not notice it. It cannot be solely because he is a Maia. I never heard Grandfather say the same of any other Ainu. That one alone. The feeling that arises in me when I think on it and focus on the flames is not a pleasant one. I do not speak the language of fire as well as my grandfather; if I could, what would it tell me?

The Dwarves never warmed to Annatar, although he has been nothing but cordial to them and offered them no slight. Narvi calls him Golden—a nickname among the Stone-Masters that refers to color rather than merit—but Narvi does not speak of him often. He may have decided he cannot speak freely of Annatar in my presence. 

Annatar not does show dismay at my kinsman's coldness toward him, but he is perceptive and could not have failed to notice it. Later, when our day's labors are behind us, I reassure him that Gil-galad meant no offense, he smiles. "I well know he is not fond of me. It does not matter, Tyelpe."

"It is because the war was long, and none of us were the same at the end of it. He has learned to be wary, like the rest of us."

"And that is why it does not matter," says Annatar, "because I understand him and his suffering."

I reach out to him. As my hand settles on his shoulder, he turns to meet my gaze directly, and though he yet smiles, there is such a sorrow in his eyes. That feeling speaks to me more directly than any words could. The loss reflected there. I have lost my own family, and so many friends, and Annatar too fought in the war. He must have sacrificed so much. I slide my hand up into his hair. He shifts, moving forward until he is leaning against me. He rests there, letting his weight settle onto me. His hair is soft and golden, a halo of light around his head. 

To trust someone completely is always a risk. _Have you never found him suspicious?_ Do I trust him? I would like to. I would like to give my trust to him, to let him have everything that is mine, freely. His breath is warm on my neck. "You can tell me, Annatar. Speak of whatever you wish to speak." 

"I lost," he says. I wait to hear him complete the thought. Will he name a name? Will he tell me of what befell him, a personal admission from someone who speaks sparingly of himself?

"I lost everything." As with so many of his words, I hear that they are true, but that does not bring me comfort or relief. He raises his head, and his eyes are full of tears, his face flushed with them. I have never seen Annatar weep before. He does so soundlessly. The fall of his tears, one by one. Somehow, each one feels like a blow. I cannot help but embrace him, and he allows it. The arms that wrap around me are strong. I hold him tight and close. He has been hurt, so deeply, by I know not what. We think of Maiar as great beings, spiritual entities, but they can suffer and grieve. They can be harmed, injured to the point where their bodies dissolve and they drift away.

In all these years, he has not told me what happened to him. I cannot say if he will speak of it in the future, and I will not force him to, but I keep my hold on him. I want to believe him. I want to believe this is real, yet the possibility that it is not lingers, no matter what I do. I cannot banish it. My own eyes start to sting. Am I weeping because of his sorrow or my apprehension?

I keep my eyes open. On the table behind us, there is a candle, and I study the flicker of its flame. I cannot deny what I see.


	7. Lights that Splinter (Mairon)

Shadows shift at the edges of our room. It is not by our will, but the motion of the last flame to light us before we extinguish it and sleep. I could make that flame grow with my will alone, or I could destroy it with the same.

_What if I were Annatar?_ That is a question that rises into my mind now and again. Small, but not ignorable. All along, I have been pretending to be who I thought I might have become, were my path a different one. What would have happened if I had not joined my fate to Lord Melkor's? Would I have met this Elf regardless?

I never expected to tarry so long. Yes, a great deal of time was needed, for me to plant the needed ideas in the Elves, to teach them all that I wished to know and take from them all that I wished to take. Now I have been this Annatar for so long that there are moments when I half-expect to turn into him, I have sunk so deep within my role.

Could it be that there is some aspect of this Elf that genuinely pleases me?

He wears always—not a ring of power—but the ring I made for him, the first one. Though there is something of power in it, it does not have the greatness of the others. It contains the energy of our bond and binds him to me. I have seen how fondly he gazes at it. But then, I have seen the way he occasionally glances at me, out of the corner of his eye. A look less fond, and more unsure. I am loved, but suspected.

I have long known that a time would come when he would cease to trust me. Yet there remains a chance that I might disperse his doubts completely. It is possible, that if I were to give up on my own plans, I could stay. A bizarre notion, yet it returns to me now and again and I play with it idly—a mental exercise, nothing more.

There was a day, long ago now, that I told Eönwë, _I am sorry. I will change. Let me come back with you._ I was on my knees before him, trembling and in pain. He was once my friend, and I appealed to him, and our old friendship.

He told me it was not his choice to make, and I must ask the Valar. I knew what that meant. I must serve them again. Willingly and humbly. I must serve another master. I must prove myself and begin a new life within the shadow of their suspicion. I had given up so much to win my freedom, I could not bear to sacrifice it again. I did not go with him. He said to me, _Please. I will do what I can for you. I will speak for you. Mairon, you cannot stay here._

I could not stay, but I could not go with him, not at that price. One thing I am not sure of: did I mean what I said to Eönwë? That I was sorry, that I would change? Even now, I do not know. In those first days, the loss of my master was so raw. The wound of having been torn from him. I felt split open. I was so broken, I could not keep my body whole, sparks spilling from me, my form diminishing. 

"Come here, Annatar." Tyelpe speaks in a low voice, shifting in bed so that I can feel the motion beneath me. I do as he bids me.

"You're so tense." His hand settles on my head, stroking my hair. "It is all through you." He rubs my shoulders, then my back. He wants to soothe me in the way Elves comfort one another, and I let him. Not for my own enjoyment, but because it helps allay his suspicions, going through these little actions, allowing these tendernesses. His fingers slide through my hair, and I feel them stirring there. I know what he is doing, for he likes to do it so often. He shifts my hair into sections, carefully measuring the strands, and then begins to weave them into braids. His hands are clever, skilled in taking up any craft, shaping any substance, even hair.

I am a Maia; I do not truly have hair, but the semblance of it, when I maintain a form like this. Never, before I came here, did someone braid my hair. These Elves are taken with the practice. They have so many rituals they gather and practice. The gentle movements I feel are not unpleasant. There is an entire language of braids among the Elves, differing from clan to clan. I did not know it before I came here. It is a useless language, but I learned it nonetheless, as I learn all languages. Celebrimbor will weave into my hair the truth of our binding. He will write into the twists and loops of hair his own name. 

I do not like weaving. There is power in it, but it is not my power. In this case, it is his. It is slight, but I feel his energy vibrate very faintly around my head. When we put the candle out and sleep, I leave the braids in. He rests beside me. His eyes do not close, but I can tell from his breathing when he has passed from wakefulness into dreaming.

It is then that I rise. Elves sleep with their eyes open, but I do not need to sleep at all. Celebrimbor knows this. He would not find it odd to see me leave without a word, as I have done so many times before. Over all these years, these Elves have grown accustomed to my ways. They do not question what might, in an Elf, be seen as an odd habit. That suits me.

It is in the forge I find myself, as I so often do. Most of the Elves are asleep, and I am alone here. Not all of the inhabitants have grown to trust me, but I am pleasant and kind to all. I smile when I speak, and over the centuries, as I have done them no wrong, they have grown used to my presence among them. And I—

—I have grown used to living among them.

I make a sword. There is nothing I cannot create in the forge, and a sword comes easily, for it is like my thoughts, sharp and combative. It is a part of my nature to create, and I barely need to think to do it. I can still feel the braids that bind my hair, dimly aware of them, a reminder of Celebrimbor's existence and craft. My strikes ring out true as the metal takes shape. The familiar movements clear my mind for me to think on other matters. The iron is hot under my hammer and sings out each time it is struck. 

Then—its voice twists into a splintering snap. The forming sword breaks beneath a blow.

Broken. I stare at the wreck of the blade, tracing the outline of the remains with my gaze. It was no impurity or mis-strike that destroyed the forming weapon. No, its ruin is due to my own thoughts going astray and into my work. My uncertainty, for that is what I am: uncertain. A trait I have so very seldom embodied. Not since so very long ago. 

I see myself now more clearly in this broken metal than in any mirror. I pick up the shards in my hands, absorbing their heat. My time here has weakened me. My time, and this Elf. Those of his line are too powerful, and they put that power into everything they do. Not only the things they make. They were ever one of the greatest threats to my master's reign, and it is a good thing most of them have been eliminated.

I have never made such an error in my smithing before. _What if I were Annatar?_ But I cannot, will never be Annatar, as he has appeared all these years. I twist the metal in my hands, working it into many different forms, shaping it as a potter would shape clay. I form it into the letters of a language that has never been spoken here. Into a name. My name. _Mairon_ , as the Elves would say it. Bright and exceptional, it shines for but an instant before I obliterate it, compacting the metal into a wordless sphere. 

Names have great power, and I will not reveal myself too soon. Not too soon, but soon enough.


	8. Collision in the Dark (Celebrimbor)

He is here. The clamor of the barrage at the gates began this morning, and it is constant now. I smell a storm on the air. 

I knew he would come back to me, for me. I knew I would know no joy on the day of his return. 

How much longer than the gates stand? I cannot say. At least we had time to prepare. We strengthened our walls, once we understood his intent and our danger. With all the skill and resources at our hands, some of which he had given to us himself, we made our defenses greater. We feared we should be forced to shelter here. I fear it will not be enough. We were pushed back. He does not stop. Nothing could convince him to stop. Our home, our once-open city, now a trap. _My husband is at the gates_. Words that would have brought me joy, years ago.

Was our union fated, or was it forced upon me by trickery? It is said that all the bonds of Elves were first sung into being by the Creator when he made the world. Was I then meant to wed Mairon, the servant of Aulë? Instead of Sauron, the servant of Morgoth?

I cannot know. I cannot say what might have been, and it would be a greater torment to consider it too much.

In my hands, I hold the ring he made for me. Not one of the rings of great power; those are gone now, hidden in places I hope will be safe—those we made together, and those three I made apart from him, in secret. No, this is the ring he made for me alone. At the time, I took this gift as not only a demonstration of his technique, but as a token of his affection. How wrong I was. I should have thrown this thing away, into the river, or into any deep and final place. I have kept it with me, because I cannot bear to be parted from it. I have not dared to wear it on my finger, not since we realized the truth. Since that day, I wore it around my neck, on a chain. Now it is held by my fingers alone.

Annatar— _Sauron_ —once asked me if I felt I had made a great mistake. I feel so now, more than ever. Perhaps my mistake was not in loving him. Loving is a natural, Elvish impulse. Worse than that, I allowed him to love me. I allowed myself to let him in, close to everything I hold dear. My people have not said a word of blame to me. They stand with me. They see me as the victim, ensorceled by the Enemy's magic and foul influence. They may be right, but with each assault on the gates, I berate myself for another failing, another weakness, another innocence. 

Despite my guilt, and I have much of it, I cannot say it was wrong to live my life in love, and with the hope of peace. Should I abandon them now? No, it is not love and hope that will kill me. It is cruelty and spite. I love my people and my smiths. I hope that some will survive, and that the great rings I forged will escape the Enemy's grasp. I trust in those I have given them to, that they will carry on where I have fallen. If I give in to despair, it will do them no good.

I turn the ring my husband made for me in my hands, and I wonder if he can sense me through it, if he knows my thought or has any awareness of my feelings. I do not fool himself that he held any genuine regard or affection for me. How he must have laughed at me, for those many years. Gorthaur the Cruel.

We Elves have given him so many names. Abhorred and Cruel and Terrible. Though now he has also been called Annatar, Artano, and Beloved of Celebrimbor. A once bright fact, so bitter now. He will be remembered as Deceiver, Destroyer of Telperinquar.

Night is falling. I call out orders to my soldiers, to ready them for the inevitable. I cannot rest. No rest is left for me in this life. Sauron's forces surround our city. I do not know by what miracle it could withstand the coming onslaught, but while I yet live, I will fight for the lives of my people. 

The sky above is clouded over, but here and there are gaps where the sky shows through.The first stars start to appear as the darkness deepens. The Maia of the stars. I wish they could descend from their bright thrones to bring us aid, but they will not. We have done all we can to ready ourselves. No more allies will be coming to our rescue. It is too late. My hand tightens on the ring.

"Annatar." I speak his name, too quietly for anyone else to hear. I sense that he is near. He will be here soon. We will be reunited. He will give me one last gift. "Aulendil," I say. Oh, it was not a lie. He was a friend of Aulë once, and betrayed him as well. "Artano." Master Smith—a name well-earned, for who else could create so tirelessly and so brilliantly? I sense now, too, that he is aware of me. Is it the ring that makes this possible, or is it all that we have shared together, which has bound us together more irrevocably than any spell?

"Sauron," I say. "I am tired of waiting." 

Like any Fëanorian, I know battle, and I am skilled in war. My father and his father taught me how to fight. I draw my sword. Finally, I let the ring go, and it falls to the ground, where it does not rest, but spins. There is a great crash of thunder and of falling gates. _Oh, so he has heard me!_ I am not surprised, only weary. A cry goes up, from the Enemy's forces. It is answered by the voices of Elves, raised in challenge.

My husband has returned to me.


	9. Saying Farewell to Flesh (Mairon)

Tylepe rests so still beside me, and when his half-open eyes shift from the silvered distance of sleep to the darker closeness of waking, I smile at him. His eyes are as gray as the troubled sea, with the motion of turmoil in them. Around us, the bedding is pale and soft and encompasses us, as it was for hundreds of years, when we shared a bed. His gaze on me wavers as he takes in his surroundings. His eyes are wide with fear, but he does not see any cause for fear here, in our room.

"Annatar." I hear the doubt in his whisper. Should he doubt me, or himself?

"What is it?" I reach out my hand to him, to rest it on his cheek. He flinches, then stills. "You look so troubled, Tyelpe."

His eyes close. Open. I am still here, attentive and kind and present for him. "I—am. I saw—" 

"You had a dream?" I ask. The minds of Elves are difficult to enter and to warp, but I have a special connection with this one, no matter how powerful he is. I can show him things I want him to see, or which he wants to see. I can look into his mind.

There is one thing in particular I want to know, and it is easier to look for it when his defenses are down. What better place for that than our marriage bed? I stroke his cheek, and I search within him. Again. He has already given up so much information and so many of the rings to me, but he is growing more stubborn. The last rings, the most important ones—I still do not know where they are. I had not guessed he would make more rings in my absence. That was a possibility I had not accounted for, and it puts my plans at risk.

"A dream," he says. His voice is weak. He is torn between the false assurances of my illusion and the truth of what came before. "I do not know if that is what it was."

"Then what is it? You know you can speak freely to me."

He hesitates, then very slowly nods. "I dreamed that you had turned against me. You had turned into—something else." His gaze intensifies as he looks at me.

He wants me to deny it. "That, I will never do. I am always myself."

He shakes his head, movements still delayed, drawn out. "Yes, so you are."

I continue to seek within him, as we speak. My mind within his mind. "Do you remember when we met?" I ask.

"Of course, Annatar." He smiles. His eyes are tired, but this smile is genuine. "How could I forget that?"

The memory could distract him enough to open a way for me, a way to the truth. "I had not expected I would ever wed, before I saw you." Sorting through his thoughts, I find most of them are focused on me. Images of me: in his hall, in the forge, among the hills, and in his arms.

"It was the same for me," he says, "And then you came. I was never the same."

"No, you will not ever be the same." Is it strange to say that? No time to hesitate. I hope to find the rings, so I send his thoughts in that direction. "Oh, I have something for you." I hold out my hand, and he looks at it, puzzled.

"I found your ring." I open my fingers to show him: the ring I made for him, that I poured my emotions into. You could call it the ring of our union, as it was made for him and binds him to me. The ring he cast aside. It was my gift to him, and I am the Lord of Gifts. I will decide what he abandons and what he keeps. "You lost it."

Confusion shows in his expression as I take his hand. I slide the ring onto his finger. It is not truly a ring of power, but it does have an effect on him. His smile fades. His breath quickens.

"Yes—of course. Annatar." He falters, and I push through a veil of memory while he is so diverted. I expect and hope to see the rings, but instead, what I find is a shining wall. A light within him. It is so bright, I cannot see past it. I touch it, and it repels me.

I, who know such things so well, see it for what it is: the bond that I have used to pull at him for so long—the strands of his soul that I tried to weave into the cloth of my own purpose—he has used them as well. The clever little smith, always creating something new. While he was waiting for my arrival, he made himself a shield. With it, he keeps me from what I most want to know. He was stronger than I realized. All this time, I was wrong, and he surprises me.

I do not like to be surprised.

"Annatar," he says again. His tone is shifting, more insistent. 

How dare this Elf defy me? Make three rings in secret and now keep them hidden from me? I must see everything. I must have them all. My eagerness gives way to anger. I feel the flames heating my fingertips, running down the back of my neck. "Do you know where the others are?"

"The—others?" His voice wavers, a little. He blinks.

"The other rings." I keep my voice calm, tone light.

"No, I—I don't know where they are." He shakes his head. I am losing my hold on him again. I bear my will down upon him, to enforce the illusion I have created for him. The impression that things are normal, that we are happy together, as we were for so long. "They must be where they usually are," he says weakly.

He is so strong, this Elf. Too strong. In some ways, a match for me. Despite my efforts, I see the realization dawning in his eyes. I lean in closer. I whisper, " _Where are the rings, Tyelpe?_ "

The breath catches in his throat. He starts and pulls away, but he is too late, because I have already caught him. My grip on him tightens. My deceit has failed. I abandon my façade, for now, until the next time. "If you tell me what I wish to know, I will let you die quickly. That's all you have to do, and I will end it." In spite of my words, my face is still Annatar's, my expression amicable, my gaze on him soft.

"Sauron," he says. The hissing way he says my name. 

As he uses that name, I show him my real smile, the one I kept hidden for centuries. 

He will not tell me. He continues to resist, with that strange and infuriating stubbornness of the Elves and of his line. My patience is lost. I cut into his skin. I peel it back, layer by layer, looking for the answers I seek. I do not find them. Once I am done looking, I put him back together, and I ask again. And again. _Again_. When his soul tries to escape his body, I hold it in. It struggles and flutters in my hands, but I will not let it go. I need to know what he knows. I need to know where he has hidden them. I need them to make my power complete. To assure my victory. I will not let him keep them from me.

How dare he resist me? He is only an Elf.

How many days or weeks have passed?

I do not know how long it has been, when he is damaged beyond my ability to mend his mind and spirit and flesh. I do not intend it to happen. My anger is too great. Like the sword in the forge, he snaps. I wanted him to suffer longer. Years or centuries. But then, it may be better to be rid of him. This Elf makes me break things. It is fitting he should be broken in turn. 

When I fill him with arrows, they are not the ones we designed together, created to cause less pain. When I fill him with arrows, I fill him, I fill the world, with all the rage and frustration I have, until I do not feel anything else.


End file.
